The Cross of St Peter
by Vaysh11
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a member of the Confraternity, a secret pure-blood organisation. When searching in Rome for Dark artefacts, he has an unexpected encounter in the tomb of St. Peter. Harry/Draco - slash


**The Cross of St. Peter  
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***  
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Four in the morning swathes Rome in the pale blue light of August. It spills into the Basilica of St. Peter, clearing the air of the lingering wafts of frankincense, the smoky residue of snuffed candles and hot wax on wood. There must be a moment when the night takes with it the smells of last night's mass, but Draco Malfoy missed it. Or at least he cannot remember the next moment, when even the echoes of that faithful ardour are gone, and the new day breaks into the ancient Basilica as if for the very first time. He should have seen it, Draco thinks, as he feels the crisp cold on his cheek. He has been sitting here all night on a bench close to the canopied altar, hidden by a Disillusionment Charm. Only now, when the night is all but over, does he trust that nobody followed him.

It's like entering a Muggle darkroom when Draco descends into the archway of the necropolis which extends underneath St. Peter's Basilica. The blue light is gone suddenly, as if a door was shut behind him. Down here the darkness is thick like tar. He dares not light a _Lumos_, for fear of whatever ancient spells the protectors of the Cross have placed on it. For months he studied the plans of the City of the Dead, so that now he knows his way – literally – in the dark. Wand at the ready, he puts one foot before the other. There! He feels the long crack in the floor where once stood another door, removed during the excavations of the mid-twentieth century. Magically, the barrier still exists, for its protective spells were bound to the place, not encased in the metal of the door. Draco casts the spell underneath his breath, careful to not disturb the unmoving air. Still, his whispered _»Finite«_ runs like an echo along the walls and shatters the inky silence amidst the tombs. He bites down a curse and wishes he could master non-verbal magic, but he can't, at least not with as powerful a spell as this.

Draco takes a careful step, then sighs in relief when nothing hinders him. He takes another step, then he walks and counts. Twenty, fifty, a hundred … he comes to a halt. The Via Cornelia makes a turn, like Draco knows it would. He feels with his left hand along the plastered wall until he finds the fine slit between two bricks, a hole so small that only a pebble or a Shrunk key can be hidden there. The key is tiny, like a sparrow's bone, but the iron feels heavy on Draco's palm. Once Unshrunk, it will fit a sizeable lock.

He smiles in the darkness. The old networks can still be relied upon, with members of the Confraternity all over the world. Rome, of course, has always been a stronghold of the pure-blood movement, a place whose magic is older than the Eternal City herself. He walks on, cautious step by cautious step, confident now that he will be able to retrieve the artefact that he is here for.

All black marble, the Muggles call it the Cross of St. Peter. Cut from the foundations of the obelisk, which once marked the position of Peter's crucifixion, it is one of the most powerful artefacts known to the wizarding world. Even up in the Basilica Draco felt its magic beating like a heart. As he feels its presence now, only a few steps between him and the vault, he wonders about who is buried here. For it's not Peter, who was once Simon, son of Jonah from Capernaum, who lies in the vault. The body of Peter the fisher was thrown into the pit where all the crucified went. An anonymous grave, his holy bones mingled with hundreds and hundreds, wizard and Muggle alike. The marble cross, though, which adorns the sarcophagus in the vault, is authentic, dating back into the year of Peter's death.

Magic rolls of this place in violent torrents, Draco can practically touch it with his fingertips. He wonders whether whoever lies in that coffin was crucified, too. Death makes for strong magic, Voldemort was right about that. But the Dark Lord conveniently forgot that with magic, circumstances matter and motivations are as powerful as the outcome of any spell. It's a lesson Draco learned as much from Aunt Bella as from Dumbledore.

He rarely thinks of Dumbledore, and when he does, he usually finds himself at a place like this, poised between glory and lethal danger. And now, as he is about to finish this job, he thinks of the choice the old headmaster offered him. He wonders what Dumbledore would think of Draco Malfoy's choices now that the wizarding world has been over-run by Mudbloods and the knowledge of the old ways is dwindling rapidly. Perhaps, he thinks, today Dumbledore and he would be standing on the same side.

He can feel the vault now, a thickening in the darkness before him, from where colder air seeps into the Via Cornelia. For a moment he opens his mind, and the barred gate appears before him, illuminated in a bright white light like the afterimage of a camera's flash. He closes the connection at once – who knows what the wards can detect? Legilimency is tricky business at the best of times. Still, with his mind securely Occluded again, there is a sense of a lingering presence, human perhaps, or a large animal. Whether wizard or Muggle, Draco cannot tell. He turns around slowly in the dark, careful not to betray his position, then stops breathing and listens intently for any sound which doesn't belong here. There's distant pacing above him, the acolytes preparing for morning mass, he assumes. But down here – nothing.

Draco turns back to the vault. He is _that_ close to finally retrieving the Cross of St. Peter, he will not be stopped now. Quickly he takes the tiny key from his pocket and whispers the spell, cringing again about how far his voice carries in the silence. It cannot be helped, he thinks, when he holds the heavy key in his hand. At least six inches long, Draco touches the bit and feels the even-armed Greek cross punched through it. The edges are sharp as if the key was made recently and not centuries ago. He turns one last time and tries with all his senses to penetrate the darkness that fills the Via Cornelia. Nothing. He puts the key into the lock and turns it to the right.

With a rusty groan the bars swing inward. At once, Draco steps away from the door and leans against the pillar at the side of the tomb. Magic floods out of the grave in huge waves that could knock down a grown man. His shadow is revealed when the walls shimmer silver, but it's gone in another instant. Out of the corner of his eyes Draco sees another shadowy form, crouched on the other side of the tomb, but when he turns, there is only the pillar, then all goes dark again. Panic washes through him, he can feel the sweat building on his palms. Silently he curses his wild imagination and the tricks it plays with his mind. He has taken every possible precaution. He will finish this job now.

Tightening his grip on the wand, Draco steps down the stairs into the tomb. From the pocket of his robes he takes the vial of nard oil. He moves to the Western corner where by ancient tradition the lamp is placed. Sure enough he feels the flat stone bowl set into the wall. Carefully he unstoppers the vial and pours the precious oil into the lamp. He steps back and with a whispered _»Incendio«_ ignites the oil. Draco can smell its bitter sweetness even before the red light illuminates the vault.

The sarcophagus is a simple affair made from unadorned stone. There are no words or symbols carved into the slabs. Its superior workmanship only shows in how seamlessly the cover fits the coffin. Draco edges closer, but he cannot detect even the finest crack. The sarcophagus looks as if it was carved from solid stone, and the body – if there truly is one – was locked into it by magic. The Cross of St. Peter gleams darkly on top of the stone, its shorter end pointing towards the vault's entrance, towards where Draco stands. He steps to the side of the sarcophagus and moves his wand over it. _»Specialis Revelio«_, he murmurs, and the cross makes a jerky move. Its shorter end points towards Draco again. Powerful magic, but he expected nothing less. He looks for the tell-tale green shimmer of protective spells, listens for the slight humming of more wards placed on the cross, but there are none.

Draco puts his wand on the tomb. It feels like he'd need both hands to pry the cross from the stone. He dries his sweaty palms on his robes, then reaches for the cross.

»I wouldn't touch that.«

Draco spins around, as the sound of the voice echoes through the vault. Potter stands at the wall beside the lamp. In the red light his face looks like it's made from bronze, his scar glimmers like hot ash. Fiery sparks seem to have caught in his glasses and dance around the tip of his drawn wand. _Damn!_

»Potter.« Draco can barely hear his own voice, his heart is pounding so loudly in his chest. He moves back a fraction, feeling on the sarcophagus' surface for his wand.

»Fuck, Malfoy, don't touch it!«

Potter is at his side in an instant and pulls him back, his left arm tight around Draco's waist. Potter's wand, he cannot help but notice, is trained on the Cross of St. Peter.

»What the …?« But Draco cannot finish what he means to say. His own wand on the stone slab has sprouted … leaves!

He struggles to free himself from Potter's hold, but the git tightens his arm and whispers in his ear, »Don't fucking touch the cross, Draco. Believe me, you'll regret it.«

»All right, all right, but let me go!« Bloody Potter! How could he have found him? Nobody knows that Draco is in Rome, not even the Confraternity's Heads, not even the witch who'd hidden the key for him months ago. He himself dismantled the wards protecting the Basilica when he came here last night. How the fuck could Potter possibly know?

He grabs his wand, which looks like a branch flowering in veneration of St. Barbara. But it's the middle of August, not December, and his wand is hawthorn, not cherry wood like the branches blooming for the saint. The wand feels familiar in Draco's hand, but warmer than usual and tingling with life. As he looks at it, the leaves fold in on each other, shrink and retreat back into the wood, leaving little knobs which vanish, too, in another moment.

Draco turns to Potter who watches him with an odd smile. »What is that?« he asks, and because he is pissed off as hell, he snaps, »And what the fuck are you doing here?«

»Saving your life. Again.« Potter moves near, his wand still pointing at the Cross.

»You have to stop doing that.« Draco's voice shakes, but he can't help it, not when Potter is so close. »How did you find me this time?«

Potter laughs that dark quiet laugh of his, and Draco feels himself react instantly. _Damn him._ He watches as Potter's wand disappears in one of the many pockets of his trousers, followed by the stupid glasses. Potter's gaze is now on him, the cross and the tomb seemingly all forgotten. Draco cannot help shiver as he sees the glint in Potter's eyes.

Naturally, as if Draco was all his, Potter places his hands on Draco's hips and pulls him close. »You made it easy for me,« he murmurs.

Draco stifles a groan when their cocks touch. Potter is hard, and so is Draco, has been since that first touch of Potter's arm around his waist. He slides his wand back up his sleeve, and as he leans in he thinks how perfectly safe he feels in Potter's arms, no matter that they are surrounded by death and powerful ancient magic, with the Cross of St. Peter so near, which Potter seems to think will kill by mere touch.

»You couldn't have followed me.« Draco is certain of it. He travelled Polyjuiced all the way to Iceland, then jumped with an unregistered Portkey directly into the Vatican last night.

»Oh no, you're too clever for that,« Potter says as his hands glide up Draco's back. »Touch me,« he whispers, and Draco cannot resist the lure of that dark voice. He cups Potter's arse in his hands, and Merlin, it has been far too long. As he feels the firmness of muscle and flesh, his hips move forward by their own accord. Potter moans against Draco's throat, and with one violent shove Draco has him stumbling backwards towards the lamp.

»So how did you know?« Draco asks breathlessly, as he pushes Potter against the wall. Their hips move in a languid rhythm that will kill him if he can't get more of Potter soon.

»I've been waiting here for you. I knew you'd come.« Potter grabs his hair and pulls Draco's head back, so his throat lies bare for Potter's lips to suck at the skin. Shivers run through Draco's body and he starts frotting against Potter's crotch. The question occurs to him whether this is the right time and place for sex, but they always fuck like this, at the most unlikely of places. He can count on one hand the times they did it in a bed.

»You knew?« Draco gasps as Potter bites into his throat, too sharp to be gentle, too careful to actually hurt.

Potter's laugh is so soft, Draco feels it more than hears it, a low rumbling at his chest. He moves closer, eager to feel the sounds Potter makes. He's fucked boys much prettier than Potter, but nothing turns him on like this wiry body, all sinew and muscle underneath that pale skin.

»Trier,« Potter says with a sharp thrust of his hips. »You looked for the Cross there. Then Cologne.«

Draco moans and wriggles against Potter. Their rutting in the red light has him so unbelievably aroused. His hands roam all over Potter, tearing at his t-shirt to get at naked skin. Potter's hands are on Draco's buttocks now, holding him close, and they rock against each other faster and faster. In the back of his mind Draco has an inkling of how Potter knew, damn the git. He whispers, »You followed me to Prague last month, didn't you?« and for an answer Potter squeezes Draco's arse.

It's all that it takes for Draco to push his hand between them and reach for Potter's fly. He has to touch Potter's cock now, he _needs_ to make him come. Potter eases his hold on him, giving Draco's nimble fingers space to deal with buckle and buttons and zip open those Muggle jeans. Not that Draco minds the Muggle garments. He quite enjoys Potter's arse in tight trousers, on those rare occasions when they meet in daylight. As he pulls down the jeans he feels the buttons of his robes pop open, one after the other, starting at the top. Potter and his wandless magic! His fingers are untying the laces of Draco's trousers, too, and Draco can barely hold still anymore.

»Hurry up,« he moans raggedly, then pushes hard into Potter's hand that wraps around his cock. Oh, Salazar, it's been _way_ too long. He tries to return the favour and touches Potter's dick, but he can't focus on anything but the heat coiling in his groin. Potter's fist slides up and down his cock, just a bit too hard for comfort. The pain makes Draco's balls contract and he groans deeply when precome seeps from the tip of his cock. Potter swipes one calloused thumb across it and uses the liquid as lubricant. His grip is tight, he's tossing him off now, hard and fast. Draco's hands are around Potter's neck, he digs into his skin, holding on to him, as his knees threaten to give. He buries his face in Potter's hair and gulps in the smell of him, of exhaust and dust and something sweet and fruity like strawberries. He wants to groan loudly with how good this is, but swallows the sound. This place is far from safe, no matter how Potter makes him feel.

Potter must notice that Draco is holding back, for he tightens his grip on Draco's cock. _He knows me too bloody well,_ Draco thinks as he bucks viciously into Potter's fist. Potter's other hand pulls his pants even further down and reaches for his arse. Draco pants in anticipation as Potter's fingers move along his crack. Then fingertips rub against his hole, and it drives him crazy, how much he wants Potter to pierce his arse, how much he wants him to continue stroking his cock. A soft humming fills the vault, and belatedly Draco realises that the sound comes from his own throat. His body rocks back and forth, he's that close to losing it, and he moans, far too loud, as stabs of pleasure cut through him. Potter moves his head and he whispers Draco's name as he pushes two fingers into him.

Draco cannot remember when his mind – or rather, his cock – has been trained like Pavloff's dog to respond to Potter's voice like this. But he does so, unfailingly, every time they fuck. »Draco,« Potter will whisper, and the one word will send Draco rushing into certain, sweet release.

This time is no different. Behind his closed lids the light shimmers darkly. A tingling, much like he felt in his wand before, spreads from the soles of his feet up through his body. Where his skin touches Potter's buds of heat burst into sparks like lightning. Deep in his groin pleasure uncoils and shoots forth with a strength that is almost too much, unbearably keen and sharp. There is no choice but let himself be torn open, and Draco gives in, like he always does, to Potter. His body twists and shudders as he comes, hard, jerky, spilling all over Potter's hand.

In the red light, he finds himself leaning against Potter's body. His breath is still coming fast, and he realises that Potter is panting, too. He feels Potter's heavy cock against his stomach. Potter moans when Draco rubs his body against him. He has forgotten how good this feels, to have Potter so close, all needy and ready to be taken.

He pulls at Potter's arm, and his fingers slide out of Draco's arse. There is an odd sense of loss, even when Potter's other hand still cradles Draco's prick. Quickly he grabs for Potter's wrists, trying to wrap his long fingers around both of them. »No,« Potter groans and shifts his body to the side as he struggles to keep his hands out of Draco's reach. He wants it and he fights it, like he always does. It's never been easy to concede control, for either of them. But Potter cannot resist for long, not when he's so close already. They both know what he craves. In one final shove, Draco has Potter's arms pinned to the wall above his head. He almost crushes the thin bones of Potter's wrists. When he stares into his eyes, the flames of the lamp flicker within the green.

»Hold still,« Draco whispers, and Potter moans, »Yes … please.«

He allows himself a smile, for now he has Potter where he wants him. Between them, Potter's cock juts out hungrily, more than ready for Draco's touch. Potter moves his head and tries to find Draco's mouth, but –

»Not yet,« Draco says and quite enjoys how smug he sounds.

Potter lets his head fall forward. His hips thrust helplessly.

With a flick of his wrist Draco retrieves his wand from his sleeve. He may not have mastered non-verbal magic, but his left-handed wand-work is legendary. He lifts Potter's chin with the tip of the wand so he can see his eyes as he casts the spell. It never fails to do its magic. Potter's eyes widen, he draws in a sharp breath. Draco feels warm precome drip onto his stomach where the head of Potter's cock touches him.

The chains around Potter's wrist are made from blue steel, slender but unbreakable by any force but magic. It makes this game all the more thrilling, that Potter could free himself with one wandless _Relashio_, but he never does. Instead he will pull at the chains until they cut into his skin and Draco has to stop Potter from hurting himself.

He whispers a Sticking Charm, and the chains are firmly moored to the ancient wall. Potter shivers and pants, testing with every breath the strength of the charm. His eyes are on Draco now, all dark and glazed-over. Draco presses his body against Potter, he needs to feel him all over, knees, thighs, groin, chest, face. His hands move up Potter's out-stretched arms and it scares him how much it turns him on to feel Potter's painfully taunt muscles, the sharp, bony angle of his elbows, the tightness of his fists. Chained or not, Potter always awakes this need in Draco, this crazy, desperate need to touch and squeeze and push and push. Draco's long given up resisting it.

His mouth hovers over Potter's, touching, but barely, as if he's applying gold leaf onto smoothly sculpted lips. They move soundlessly, but Draco knows what Potter's trying to say. He's begging _please, please_, and he wants Draco to kiss him, to touch him, his throat, his belly, his cock – everywhere. Potter wants Draco to make him come like only Draco can.

He runs his tongue along Potter's lips, and the thrill of tasting him again, after months, overwhelms him. Dust and salt and a dark, fierce sweetness – Draco bites into it, he's so hungry again, already. Potter's tongue moves into him with a moan and a breath, and Draco sucks at it eagerly, all that fleshy warm wetness filling him up. His fingers dig deep into muscle and sinew, and Potter groans with the pain. He tears at the chains, like Draco wants him to, then jerks his head away from their kiss. Draco follows him instantly and reclaims Potter's mouth which is open and soft with need. One last stab into the bruised muscles of Potter's upper arms, an aching moan, and it's enough. Draco moves his hands down, he threads his fingers through Potter's hair, holds his head between his palms and something wells up in him, and he kisses him so tenderly, like Potter's made of glass, not steel … Then Draco slides his hands underneath Potter's shirt.

Potter's chest rises and falls, he stares at Draco. When Draco moves across his nipples, those dark green eyes flutter shut and Potter whimpers, whimpers like he's hurting, but he can't be, not when Draco barely touches him. There is a grating sound from the chains, and Draco looks up to see Potter tear at them as if his life depended on it. His magic's sparkling around the links of steel, splatters of blood trickle down his arms.

»Easy,« Draco murmurs and lets his fingers ghost over Potter's skin. The hair on Potter's chest is soft and damp with sweat, and he strokes it languidly, calming Potter, as he always does. It had taken them months to figure out what they both need, back in the beginning. Draco is still surprised that Potter returned to him, every time, unfailingly, even when their fucks were tortured affairs which left them both only hungry for more. He wanted to see Potter undone beneath him, wanted to see his eyes tear up with pain, with lust. He still wants it, but he knows that he won't hold the knife, knows that Potter himself must cut his skin. Sometimes, when they're apart, he dreams about losing Potter like this, in a sea of blood, and it scares him like nothing else. But now Potter's here, alive, with him in this grave full of magic, and Draco moves his hands gently across Potter's ribs down to his waist. He wraps one arm around him and holds him close. His other hand pushes between Potter's legs and he cups, ever so carefully, his balls.

Potter spreads his legs at once, thrusting hips forward and back, riding on Draco's hand and wrist. Draco licks at Potter's neck, he murmurs sweet silly things in Potter's ear, and Potter turns and catches Draco's mouth and moans and kisses him, all the while thrusting hard. Draco's fingers are wet and slippery from precome and sweat and he pulls his hand up gently, to wrap it around Potter's cock. There's a sound like a sob, and Potter stops moving abruptly. He's swaying on his feet, but Draco has him in a firm hold around the waist. He puts his thumb and middle finger around Potter's cock, in a light embrace. Potter is so hard, the veins stand out from the swollen flesh like tangled roots. Careful not to touch the engorged head of his cock, Draco moves the foreskin as gently as he can. Up and down he moves it, a slow rhythm that makes Potter twitch and jerk.

Draco has his eyes on Potter's chest now, which is covered by the shirt. He's already half-hard again and frotting against Potter's hip. Magic surges between them, soundless but for a sudden sputtering of the flames. And yet the power of the spell washes over Draco like that very first time, years ago, back at a girls' loo in Hogwarts. A line of tiny dots splatters across Potter's shirt, casually, as if a painter flung a crimson brush. Red sprays over Draco's stomach, and more blood seeps from Potter's skin. Non-verbal, wandless, Potter casts his magic with the finest of blades. A silent _Sectumsempra_ slices his chest.

Draco keeps stroking him, ever so gently. He looks up into Potter's face. There is only darkness now in his eyes, wild and desperate, and it's all for Draco. He tightens his hold on Potter's cock, makes him push into his fist. Any second now Potter will set himself lose, will allow himself to become undone under Draco's touch. Draco watches him, his eyes, his shirt, while tossing him off. Magic surges again, and this time Draco hears a rustling on the sarcophagus, a sound as he recalls from the olive groves, of leaf-covered branches brushing against stone walls in the wind. He pays it no heed, they are safe as long as the nard oil burns. Its red shine is all around them, mingling with the power of Potter's magic. His body arches, as another line of dots appears on the cloth of his shirt. And that's enough.

»Harry,« Draco whispers, »stop. Stop.«

A shudder runs through Potter, he pulls at the chains, as he thrusts hard into Draco's hand. Once, twice – and he comes. It's the moment Draco will not miss for the life of him, when Potter's face shows _everything_: how much he needs this, how much he trusts Draco to give it to him. It's all there in the way Potter's head falls back and his arms go slack, in the way he comes in ragged spurts, the way his lips tremble red and wet around a broken »you.«

Then his breath hitches on a sigh, and he slumps against the wall. There is something about Potter now, all exposed, that makes Draco want to put the glasses back onto those eyes and just cover all of Potter with his robes. Draco can't stand to have Potter like this, all vulnerable and at the mercy of whatever harm the world holds out for him. And yet he craves it, like nothing else, to be the only one who's ever seen him so.

He puts his palm to Potter's cheek and when Potter leans into it, he draws the wand from his sleeve and casts a Healing Charm. The sing-song words of the Charm are engraved in his mind like the lullabies that his mother sung to him as a child. Potter holds his body perfectly still; he stares at Draco with wide, shining eyes.

It's only recently that he's allowed Draco to heal those hairline cuts. Not because he wants them healed – Draco's certain that he doesn't – but because he understands that Draco cannot stomach seeing _Sectumsempra_ wounds for long. Potter thinks they bring bad memories, and yes, they do. But what Potter doesn't know is that more often than not it's _him_ whom Draco sees bleeding on that water-logged floor.

It's Draco, too, who casts the _Relashio_ that releases Potter from the chains. Potter smiles at him as he rubs his wrists, but he doesn't leave Draco time to heal those, too. He pulls him close instead, trapping his wand between them, and Draco is wrapped in the sticky warmness of Potter's body. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood and spunk, the flame shining so bright, it seems to feed off it. Potter's hands move up Draco's back, he plays with the hair in his neck, then softly presses his lips to Draco's temple. Draco's cock is hard against Potter's stomach, and Potter laughs, lightly and pleased.

»Look at the Cross,« he whispers in Draco's hair.

He turns in Potter's embrace and then spins around all the way. For the Cross is gone. In its stead a jungle of trailing vines and leaves seems to have burst from the sarcophagus and covered it whole.

»What is this?« Draco whispers and can't quite keep a trembling awe out of his voice. For the lid has moved and a crack has opened to the right of where the Cross has been. Shoots of growth must have reached out for it during the long minutes of their fucking, must have wrapped it in strong vines and drawn it into the grave. At least that's how it looks from the empty, vaguely cross-shaped spot on the sarcophagus, where tendrils sway and seem to caress the ancient stone.

»Devil's Snare«, Potter says, his mouth close to Draco's ear and his arms holding him tight.

Draco recognises the plant instantly. Its lancet-shaped leaves are gleaming darkly red in the murky light, and Draco is oddly reminded of Potter's eyes. And the leaves are huge, each at least eight inches long. The soft, dangerous creepers seem to be searching for anything alive, now that they snatched the Cross of St. Peter.

He does not dare to take his gaze from the plant, for fear of where else it may look for prey. They are engulfed in the light of the burning oil, and Draco realises the red flame has been their protection all along, even when it was its very light that must have awoken this ancient curse.

»Did you know about this?« he asks quietly.

Potter shakes his head. »The Unspeakables only knew that the Cross is lethal to the touch. Especially …« He puts his hand soothingly on Draco's arm before he says the words that Draco knows he will say next. »Especially for someone who carries the Dark Mark.«

Instinctively Draco pulls away. They rarely speak about the past, and while Potter may trace the outlines of the Mark with his tongue and kiss the branded snake to feel Draco's blood pulsing underneath, neither of them ever mentions it.

»I'm not an idiot.« Merlin's beard, did Potter honestly think Draco would come to such a place without protection? He yanks Potter's hand up and presses it to his chest. »Feel this?« he snarls, trying hard to keep that old, sickening sense of humiliation down. He should know by now – and by Salazar, he does, he _does_ – that Potter looks out for him because he cares. That Potter keeps on saving Draco because he cannot bear to lose him again.

Potter's hand moves slightly over Draco's breastbone, then he gasps, startled, and pulls away. »The cloak.« He stares at Draco. »Prague – you said you've been to Prague. How the hell did you –?«

»Magic«, Draco says with a smirk, and that's when the lamp sputters and they both spin around to see the flame die. Its last fiery flicker is drowned by darkness, there's a trace of smoke in the air, then it's gone. All that Draco hears now is a sound like the rustling of leaves in the wind.

»Out«, he says, and Potter moves at once.

They rush towards the stairs, pulling pants and trousers up as they go. Draco reaches for Potter's shoulders as he steers him to the right, away from the bars' protective spells. He can feel Potter's magic focused in the tip of his wand which Draco cannot see, but sense in the dark like an invisible fire. His own wand's at the ready, he's right behind Potter who hurries up the stairs. It's a thrill to feel Potter's body before him, all taunt and on guard, years of Auror training kicking in.

»How long do we have?« Potter whispers, and Draco feels a wordless Stunning Spell directed back towards the vault, where the real danger lies.

»Until we've passed the door.«

One more stair, one more step, a loud and rusty creak to their left. Draco quickly wraps his arm around Potter and slams him into the pillar to the right. The ancient stones shiver and groan as the barred door bangs shut with an echoing boom that moves through the Via Cornelia at lightning speed. Like before, magic floods from the vault and illuminates the dark passage. In this one instant of crackling silver light Draco can see dozens of tendrils, thick as elephant trunks, reaching through the bars for them. _Ancient magic,_ he thinks, for never would mere iron bars keep Devil's Snare from its moving, living prey.

He feels Potter breathing hard beneath him, and he laughs, quietly, with relief, then shifts to give Potter room to move. He feels him turn, then fingers stroke Draco's throat and cold lips quickly touch his mouth. Draco cannot help smiling as they walk together, wands still drawn, down the Via Cornelia.

Daylight hits them when the archway opens before them. Bright and clear, it's spilling down the cracked marble stairs. Potter looks at Draco with a slight tilt of his head. It's Draco's turn to lead them up into the Basilica of St. Peter. _He cannot pass the wards_, Draco thinks and wonders what other route Potter took to enter the necropolis. As he walks up the stairs, he checks the wards, but they are still down, untouched by their true master, humming in recognition of his magic. The Confraternity will take care of them later and erase his signature. All that remains of his visit is what he and Potter left in the vault: drops of spunk and blood, the lingering tastes of a magic, which is older even than wizarding kind.

He takes a deep breath when he emerges from the stairs. The enormous Basilica is empty but for the lone figure of a woman who prays on her knees, a black veil covering hair and face. Draco casts a whispered _»Legilimens«_, but there is no danger. In the woman's mind is a deep sadness and the image of a pale child, all wrapped in the comforting words of the rosary. He withdraws quickly and turns to see Potter stare at him through his glasses.

He looks all Muggle in his jeans and trainers, with his bare arms and the black, unkempt hair. A small, unprepossessing man, his muscled chest hidden beneath a shirt sullied with spots of blood. No one would suspect him to be such a powerful wizard – not until you're close and feel his magic which surrounds him like a second skin. Draco turns quickly before Potter notices the heat rising to his cheeks. It takes Draco's breath away to see him like this, in the light of day.

»You're done here?« Potter asks with a questioning look towards the woman.

Draco slides his wand up his sleeve and nods, answering both Potter's question and his unspoken concern. »The green devil snatched the Cross of St. Peter, so yes, my job is done.«

They start walking down the middle aisle towards the entrance. Potter keeps casting glances at him, and Draco knows something's on his mind. When they reach the shadowed vestibule, he steps into an alcove where their voices won't carry far. He pulls Potter close to him and asks, »What?«

Potter looks at him, his hands warm at Draco's sides, his eyes incredibly green, like they never are when they meet at night. »You …« he starts, then drops his gaze with a shy smile.

»What?« Draco asks again. What can Potter possibly be embarrassed about?

»You've, um, _collected_ all of St. Peter's relics now?«

It's not what Draco expected, far from it. Potter never takes any interest in his job and the Confraternity. For a moment he wonders whether Shacklebolt finally convinced Potter to exploit their trysts. Draco has knowledge that the Minister for Magic would pay dearly to get his greedy, Muggle-loving hands upon. But Potter has never, ever, tried to get any information from him. And so Draco nods sharply and waits for what else Potter is going to say.

»Both halves of the Crosier, the Cloak, the Sword, the Hat and the …« Potter falls quiet again.

_Oh …_ Of course, Potter would be interested in this particular relic of St. Peter. Warmth spreads from his stomach, as Draco smiles and says, »All of those, yes.« He pauses, waits for Potter to look at him, then whispers, »And the _Chains_ of St. Peter, too.«

At the sound of the word, Potter shivers and clutches Draco hard. »You … have them with you?«

»Safely hidden. It was not easy to take them from San Pietro in Vincoli. The entire church is Wizarding space. It would not let me swap the Chains for a replica, like I did in the other places. I had to Transfigure two of the original pieces into the whole of the chains. They are heavy, too, all solid iron, with bloody huge links. And they are centuries old. Might just be the real thing.« He watches Potter as he babbles on and can barely stop himself from smirking to see Potter so turned on by the mere thought of those iron chains. He has to stop himself from kissing Potter, too, because the longer he talks, the more he wants to know just how those half-opened, trembling lips of Potter's will feel.

In the end it is Potter who shuts Draco up with a kiss. When they pull back, Draco's breathless and hard and, Merlin, he's more than ready for having Potter all chained up and naked beneath him.

Potter gives him a strangely amused look. »You're staying at the Bristol, aren't you?« he says, and damn him again! Nobody can know that. Draco shakes his head, for of course nobody knows him like Potter does.

»Let's go,« Potter whispers, not waiting for Draco's answer, because he knows it already. Knows, too, that Draco wants him there, in the hotel suite, knows that they will fuck all day and likely deep into the night.

They step into the huge Piazza at the very moment when the first rays of the morning glint off the Tiber. Potter is right behind him, his chest warm and safe at Draco's back. Draco thinks how here, on this very spot, a wizard was killed, nailed to a cross upside down, because he wished it so. A gesture of humility, they say, for Peter found himself unworthy to be crucified in the same upright position as his Lord. Draco thinks of the many ways that he could still lose Potter, thinks of the blood and the cuts and the pain. _Humility,_ he thinks, and how Potter is forever making up to him for a schoolboy's mistake, each and every time they fuck.

Draco lets his head fall back lightly on Potter's shoulder, and at once Potter puts his arms around him.

»You owe me nothing,« Draco whispers.

Potter looks out onto the wide expanse of the Piazza when he answers, without as much as missing a beat, »But you … you owe me chains.«

* * *


End file.
